


you will die, somewhat, again and again.

by clockworkValkyrie, Makocchi



Series: Brothelstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Brothelstuck, Forced Prostitution, M/M, POV Second Person, Species Swap, gz is roughly 16 by troll standards, troll doc scratch, underage tag to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkValkyrie/pseuds/clockworkValkyrie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makocchi/pseuds/Makocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamzee didn't exactly have the best introduction to working at the brothel, and this is why.</p><p>~or~</p><p>In which GHB has a weird concept of being a "good" ancestor, and troll!Scratch is a total jackass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you will die, somewhat, again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from an Anne Sexton poem by way of a TGWTG fic from a few years back. I mean no offense to either writer, I just liked the line.

_Sweeps in the past, but not many._

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you can’t help but feel this isn’t such a good idea.

You are, of course, at this point used to seeing your ancestor talking in hushed tones about things you don’t understand with strange trolls you don’t know - mostly fin-faced motherfuckers who looked at you as though they owned you, as though simply by doing so you would do anything they wanted ( _like you would willingly be their little toy_ , whispers the part of your brain that can never forget as well as you’d like).

Like fuck was that ever gonna happen, though. Just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean you have to like it.

Usually you just ignore them, push the weird looks and whispered remarks from your pan and go on as normal, or whatever passes for normal around here. Evidentially tonight is going to be somewhat different, though, you think as your ancestor summons you to him and some smug-looking asshole violetblood in lime green whose smirk makes you feel trapped for reasons you don’t yet know.

“You have a cute descendant,” he remarks. You want to tell him that you are, in fact, right there and there is no need to talk about you as though you are not.The look your elder gives you reminds you to bite your tongue.

You shrink away from his gaze, pressing against your ancestor until you’re half in his lap. The seatroll laughs, low and dangerous.

“Does he have a name?”

“Its Gamzee,” you manage to snap back before your ancestor can reply, feeling like a squeakbeast trying to confront a predator, “Who the motherfuck are you?”

“Gamzee? That suits you, boy.” he says, with a half-laugh, and you can’t help but notice he dodged your question. Asshole. Still, you can feel your ancestor’s claws digging through your clothes, and you decide not to push your luck. Its not enough to draw blood, but its a warning- whoever this is, he’s Important, with an audible capital letter. Don’t fuck up.

The seadweller - who you have started mentally referring to as Creepy Motherfucker - is somehow much closer to you than he was a moment ago, you think. He has this strange way of moving through gaps that aren’t quite there. Or maybe thats just what the slime is telling you to think; you’re a little high right now and somewhat regretting it. This is probably a time you ought to know what you’re doing. Too late for that now, you suppose.

He strokes your cheek momentarily ( _gentle, but he could scar you with those claws if he wished, you know. Why else would one wear the colour of a lower caste, if not as a warning about what happens to those who cross them?_ ) You turn to face your ancestor; your ‘the fuck is going on?’ left unspoken but hopefully heavily implied.

“Be a good boy and kiss our guest, little clown.”

That ain’t supposed to be a thing, but you don’t know that yet, so you do as he says like a well-trained barkbeast, just managing to suppress a shudder when you feel the seadweller’s hands _(always so cold, even compared to other highbloods, making you think of dead things and forgotten monsters best left unnamed)_ under your shirt.

The rest is lost in a blur of hands and toungues and skin and pain and, thoughout it all, your ancestor’s voice:

_“See? I told you he would be worth the motherfucking wait.”_

Clawed hands with webbed fingers traced old grubhood scars on your hips before pushing past the waistband of your pants, and you can’t help the panicked laugh-sob that escapes your lips. You want to make your ancestor proud, you really do, but everything’s happening too fast, making you feel like there are bugs under your skin.

_“Please…”_

The seadweller ignores you, which you half notice gets a frown from your ancestor though you don’t have the energy to decipher it’s meaning.

The dutiful descendant in your mind argues with the terrified wriggler about the best way to deal with the situation, and loses. You hiss at the seatroll, squirm out of his grasp, kicking him in the shins for good measure.

_“He’s scared, Scratch.”_

(Scratch? What an odd name, you think, and then realise the inanity of wondering about names in you current predicament- half naked and afraid, stuck with a troll who could easily kill you. Its almost funny how skewed your priorities are.)

_“Look, just… let me call the shots, okay? He trusts me.”_

Everything starts to fall into place. Of course it would be okay. He would never let anyone really hurt you.

_“Get him down on all fours, finger him open, take him hard.”_

You lose your balance on your knees, nearly fall on your face, which you can’t imagine would be particularly appealing, but then what do you know about these situations? You’ve never even touched yourself before, not really, it wouldn’t have been right for a follower of the messiahs.

You can’t understand why its supposed to be something so enjoyable, why all of these _(stupid, willfully blind)_ highbloods come here and spend good money on pretty, dead-eyed trolls, some almost as young as yourself. Its not fun, it just hurts, you reflect, a scream caught somewhere in your throat between thought and reality.

_“Don’t cry, Gamzee, you’re doing so well.”_

Everything fades to black, like static on a dead radio.


End file.
